


God Help Him, Indeed

by JokerzPrincezz



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (only Harry and John's Dad), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Watson Swears a Lot, John's Dad was a drunk, John-centric, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Red String of Fate, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: "Strings, John Watson decides on a cool autumn day as he’s limping along the path in Reagents Park, trying to pretend his whole life hasn’t crumbled under his feet, are fickle, vicious things. They’re only purpose is for fate to have one giant, cosmic laugh at the petty humans wandering aimlessly around the earth. John Watson is sure of this, down to his bones. For, his life has been nothing but one giant shite show after another thanks to the damned red string attached to his chest…"





	God Help Him, Indeed

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little quick one shot I wrote at 3 am. I can't seem to get past the sex scene for John and Sherlock's honeymoon in my trans!John series, so instead I'm doing a bunch of short fluffy one shots.  
> Not brit-pick'd as always.

Strings, John Watson decides on a cool autumn day as he’s limping along the path in Reagents Park, trying to pretend his whole life hasn’t crumbled under his feet, are fickle, vicious things. They’re only purpose is for fate to have one giant, cosmic laugh at the petty humans wandering aimlessly around the earth. John Watson is sure of this, down to his bones. For, his life has been nothing but one giant shite show after another thanks to the damned red string attached to his chest…

* * *

At four years old, his string appeared and tugged for the first time. This was his first concrete memory. It was a clear, cold day in early January and a tiny John was playing outside with his sister. His Aunt Janine had bought him a set of little green army men, and his Uncle Benji had gotten him a large, colorful, story book. Being only a few weeks after Christmas, little John was still smitten with his gifts.

Suddenly, little John gasped, feeling a tightness in his chest, he watched, entranced, as a blur of red shot out of where his heart lay, then tugged, firmly. John gasped, again, not pained, but overwhelmed, and lurched forward. His feet gathered under him and he was almost pulled onto the patio, where the book Uncle Benji had bought him was laying. Hesitantly, he picked it up, then yelped in shock as he was tugged firmly in another direction. As he got back to where his little soldier men lay in a plastic heap, his feet collapsed under him.

With frantic hands, John Watson turned page after page in his story book, until he landed on a story about a witch doctor who saved a village from destruction. Confused, he watched as the string at his chest slowly split, until one red tendril reached out to the little army men, and one reached out to the story book in his lap. After a moment, John understood. 

* * *

The string lay dormant for more than a decade, until John was 16. On that particular day, John tried to laugh with his rugby team as he slowly ate the small, dry sandwich that served as his lunch ( _and breakfast, and perhaps dinner if Da’ hadn’t gotten paid yet, or worse, spent his pay on more fucking liquor._ )

It was Uni day at school, often universities would come in and set up booths, advertising their school on these days. They handed out brochures, pamphlets, stickers, pens and other little nick knacks. John Watson, who knew his path was bound to be one of blood, was always flustered on these days. They got him thinking too hard about the future.

About the people he'd watch die, about the warzone he would have to survive. It scared him, terrified him really. He had enough violence at home, didn’t he? How could fate expect him to take on more for someone he hadn’t even met yet? No matter they were supposed to be John’s perfect match.

And more than that, what did it say about John Watson that his perfect match would be drawn to such a violence driven man? Was John doomed to walk the same line as his father, as his sister? Was John doomed to find himself tied to someone just as horrid? So yes, god help him, John found himself _terrified_ of these days on campus, this stark reminder of the future hurtling towards him faster than a speeding train.

John found himself drifting along behind his school mates after lunch, head down, eyes trained on the ground and not on the two small booths on either side of the hallway leading to his class. Until suddenly, he lurched to a stop, gasping and clutching his chest. His friends stopped as well, looking at him strangely, until recognition flashed in one of their eyes.

“Is it… are they here?” the boy asked breathlessly, flashing his eyes around for a new person. Perhaps a new classmate or teacher, or even the two girls at the booths. After a moment, fighting for air, John shook his head, motioning for the boys to go on without him. Riley, the one who had recognized the signs of a string pull in John, began tugging the others along, nodding to John in solidarity and understanding. John didn’t nod back.

He stood for a moment, debating fighting the pull, until there was another yank on his young heart, and he hissed in annoyance as he was almost involuntarily swung around. Steeling himself, he raised his eyes. There was a girl sat at a booth, eyeing him strangely, plastic smile still in place. With grim determination John looked over the banner proudly proclaiming the name of a university. Finally, he grudgingly stepped up.

The girl hesitantly launched into a spiel about how fantastic this particular university was. The great housing and financial aid and “ _engaging student life!_ ”, John tuned out her fake smile, staring at the brochure the string was tugging him towards. With barely concealed annoyance, John snatched the pamphlet up.

“Oh!” the girl said, false cheerfulness coloring her voice, “yes, I almost forgot! We’ve got a fantastic pre-med program! We work with some of the top hospitals in London to-“ John tuned out.

Med school.

John glowered. Fate, he decided that day, was a fucking _bitch_. Med school, honestly? John was a good student, no doubt, aceing all his classes and exams, but even with that, school was bloody expensive. He couldn’t even bloody well afford to eat, they barely managed to keep the damned water running as it was!

And fate wanted him to go to fucking Med school. John Watson, with the alcoholic father, disowned, queer sister quickly falling down the same path, and world weary, frequently abused mother.

Well fuck fate very much.

* * *

And of course, this meant John Watson spent the next two years working his fucking arse off, applying for scholarship after scholarship, aceing test after test, working two jobs, barely sleeping. Exhausted, hungry, lonely ( _because this kind of intensity didn’t exactly allow for a flourishing social life_ ) all in the name of someone he may not meet for decades yet.

In the end he got a full ride, how the fuck he managed it, he’d never know.

When it came time to chose where he would train, the string made its presence known once more. It tugged him insistently, pointing straight to the words “ _St. Bartholomew’s_ ” on the application he was filling out. John groaned in annoyance. His mate, Bradly, had chose _Victoria’s_ , he really wanted to go there. But fate, it would seem, had other plans. What a fucking bitch.

* * *

The first day of classes at Bart’s, John entered the lecture hall hesitantly. None of his friends had chosen Bart’s, all deciding on hospitals closer to the edges of the city, slower, calmer. But nope, none of that for John. His life was, after all, one shite show after another.

The red string tugged him, almost making him stumble, and he had looked up in annoyance and hope. Perhaps this would be the moment… but no. The string was pointed at, but not connected to, a husky boy with round glasses and a kind face. The lad introduced himself as Mike Stamford. Though he wasn’t John's usual crowd, he found the young man’s kindly manner a reprieve from the intensity of their training.

* * *

Graduation came quickly. He felt, he must admit, an overwhelming pride at himself. He couldn’t wait to start working, trauma surgery suited him like nothing else. He wondered, almost giddily as he strolled the London streets, if perhaps this job was his tied. Who needed a person when he could have this, all day, everyday until his eyesight faded into nothing and his hands went stiff from age? John _loved_ working in the surgery, the hustle and bustle, the tension, the adrenaline ( _and yes_ , he could admit privately, _even the blood_ ) all set his heart aflame.

John was so busy daydreaming about graduation that he almost didn’t recognize the pull until his feet stumbled to a stop without his consent. Thoroughly annoyed, John swung his head around. Then his heart froze in fear. There was a little office set into the building across the street from him, his string pointing insistently to the door. “ _Veterans Affairs and Registration_ ”.

John swiftly turned and walked away, no, he wasn’t doing it. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see that kind of violence. ( _He didn’t want to think about how much the idea of danger set his heart racing_ ) He _wouldn’t_ do it. Fate could find another way, or it could go-

John gasped, there was a tightness in his chest, a rubber band pulled too taunt. He couldn’t…. he felt suddenly, if he dared take one more step, the string would snap, his cosmic connection to his perfect mate ripped away. John collapsed against the wall, his face in his hands.

Why him?

Why, of all fucking people, did it have to be _him_?

* * *

It would be many, many years before his string tugged again. Not until he was a pathetic, broken, crippled mockery of a man angrily and determinedly limping along Reagents Park as he tried to do every day. When he felt the string stir for the first time in a better part of a decade, he grit his teeth in anger and determination and kept walking.

“ _No, fuck you_ ” he hissed quietly, even as the string pulled tighter and tighter. _Please god, let it snap_ , some part of him begged. He was tired, he was livid, he was bitter.

What had this supposed soul mate done for him? Fucking nothing, nothing but leaving him a sad, lonely, broken little man. He would never be a trauma surgeon, he would never go back to the field, he was _nothing_. There was nothing left of him but misery and destitution. Whatever fate thought he needed; it could go fuck itself.

Then someone called his name. Frustrated, but unwilling to be rude, he turned to see a portly man with small eyes. The string pointed straight at him, and not for the first time, John realized once the man said his name.

* * *

Mike Stamford led him into the lab at Bart’s. John kept up the brittle, jagged smile as best he could, his nerves already wearing thin. This wouldn’t work, whatever person Mike knew that was looking for a flatmate wouldn’t want someone like John. Someone broken, crippled, scarred from a war he never wanted to join ( _yea, ok, he_ did _want, and that was the worst of it. Because he certainly didn’t want for Queen and Country, rather he wanted for blood and bone_ ).

Then John entered the lab and his world turned on its head. John was gaping in shock, even as he offered the man his cell phone when Mike said he’d left his. The man looked up, down, then up again quickly.

They stared at one and other for a long moment, the man, who was _beautiful_ , John realized, looked bewildered in a private, reserved sort of way. With slow, steady hands he typed out a message on John's phone, turned it over once, then stepped closer to John. He was all long limbs and sharp angles, John immediately wanted to wrap him up and feed him way too much food.

The man pressed the phone into John's hand, the warmth of his long fingers sending a shock wave through John.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man murmured, lifting a hand, pressing warm fingers into John's chest, where his string connected. Distantly, John heard Mike gasp quietly.

“A- Afghanistan, how-?” John stuttered, entranced by where his own red string wormed its way into this strange man’s chest, burrowing past his deliciously tailored shirt and into flesh that was probably pale as porcelain. The man smirked playfully, then pulled back, suddenly self-confident to the point of arrogance.

“How do you feel about the violin?” the man asked, straightening, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Violin?” John asked weakly, lost, terribly aroused, because holy fuck how did he get this lucky? Please god, don’t let this be a platonic bond!

“Yes, violin. I play when I’m thinking and sometimes don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Stringmates and flatemates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?” then he smiled, but it looked practiced and there was something vulnerable in his eyes that John wanted to jar and keep forever.

“Oh-“ John said, blinking in surprise as he looked to Mike ( _though he never wanted to look at anything but this man again_ ) “y- you told him about me?” Mike gave a knowing smile, looking all too pleased, yet still baffled.

“Not a word.” He shook his head.

“Well, who said anything about flatemates?” John asked, looking at the strange man, bewildered. The man just grinned a little, pleased.

“I did. I was just telling Mike this morning how difficult it must be to find me a flatmate, now here he is just after lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service. Logical conclusion, you need a flatshare.” The man, far too pleased with himself, buttoned his suit jacket and rolled his shoulders. "Now, I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it."

“So that’s it?” John asked, flabbergasted, “We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat?” the man meaningfully looked at John's chest and lifted a challenging eyebrow which made John flush.

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know your name, I don’t even know where we’re meeting.” John huffed. The mans face lit up with joy.

“So, you _will_ meet me?” he asked, delighted. John rolled his eyes, sagging in defeat.

“That’s not an answer” John huffed, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“I know you,” the man said after a long moment of analyzing John, leaning down into his space, seemingly trying to take in every curve, pock mark, and blemish on his face. Memorizing him, tearing him a part. “I know you’re a military doctor just returned home from service, I know you have no close friends to speak of, a brother you disapprove of, a father who drank too much, and…” he trailed off, one hand hesitantly rising, his fingers touching John's face gently. John gasped a little, both jumping and leaning into the touch. A small feather light whisper of finger tips under his eye setting him aflame in the most glorious way, “I know you have eyes like the deepest parts of the ocean, and despite all the wrong choices and my constant doubt of your existence, you stand before me.” He straightened again, flushed, excited, like a puppy trying not to bounce around the feet of its owner.

Suddenly he pulled back and began tugging on a great coat and blue scarf, his eyes never leaving John.

“That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think?” he asked with a secret smile that John already seemed to understand, “the address is 221B Baker Street, tomorrow, 7 o’clock, and the name is Sherlock Holmes.” He paused as he passed John on the way to the door, looking at John expectantly. John, entranced by the man’s beauty, jumped and flushed when he realized what he wanted.

“Oh, um, John Watson.” He nodded lamely at the man, Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at him; his face giddy.

“I’ll see you there, my John,” his hand lifted, fingers grazing where John's string met his chest. John thought it odd how touchy this man was, no regard for personal space, already behaving as if John was a part of him, or perhaps as if John already belonged to him.

John found that he loved it, that gentle possessiveness, the strange vulnerability of this man, the ice in his gaze, John could see his potential to be cruel. John could see the danger lurking under this man’s skin, this man was going to be difficult, he would be hard to understand, harder still to get close to.

John loved him already and with a breathless chuckle he nodded as the man shot him a secretive grin and winked, whisking out the door and muttering about a riding crop. John looked to Mike expectantly, who just stared at him dumbstruck.

“Did- did you just get tied to _Sherlock Holmes_?” he asked, shocked. John let out a nervously giddy laugh and nodded.

“Oh lord, god help you John Watson.” Mike gaped, looking after the door where Sherlock had disappeared.

God help him, God help him indeed.


End file.
